


Wolves and Small Children

by aleberg9



Series: We Are All Wolves Here [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Child Death, Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Trauma, Witcher Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23406358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleberg9/pseuds/aleberg9
Summary: Geralt's early life at Kaer Morhen.Basically a character study exploring some of Geralt's trauma and childhood.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: We Are All Wolves Here [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684921
Comments: 15
Kudos: 115





	1. Geralt

**Author's Note:**

> This discusses bad child rearing practices and child death!
> 
> The trials are a mix of book and games and mostly made up. 
> 
> a Cikavac is a slavic bird like monster that steals honey and milk from farms.
> 
> the linden tree in slavic mythology represents protection from evil and monsters as well as healing

Geralt is brought to Kaer Morhen when he is barely one year old. His mother, wrapped in a warm cloak of green wool, brings him to the gate days before the pass will be blocked with snow. Vesemir is the one to meet her at the gate. Visenna passes him her strangely silent child, tells him his name is Geralt and that he is destined to become a Witcher and then leaves. She does not cry.

Kaer Morhen is not set up for an infant. They rarely take in children younger than six, and even then they are at least old enough to run and speak and keep themselves occupied. Geralt is a precocious child from the moment he wakes up in Vesemir’s arms. 

The other Witcher trainers shrug and say since Vesemir was the one to take him in, he should be the one to care for him. The active Witchers who have come home to winter don’t even bother asking about the new child. Children at Kaer Morhen, before they’ve gone through the Trail of the Grasses, are treated more like ghosts than children. There is no point risking attachment when most of them will be dead before the age of twelve. 

For his first year at Kaer Morhen, no one expects Geralt to survive. He is given goats milk and later porridge to eat and a nest of blankets in Vesemir’s room to sleep in. Infants are fragile and Kaer Morhen is not gentle. Nonetheless, Vesemir does the best he can. Mściwoj, the old Witcher in charge of tending the library and teaching monster lore to the older students helps take over some of the care. With only one leg, he is perhaps the most sedentary Witcher in the keep, and stays mostly in the library. Geralt is left to crawl around and entertain himself while Mściwoj stacks books. Vesemir tries to keep an eye on him when it’s his turn to watch Geralt, but his duties revolve around teaching the advanced students sword fighting, and so more often than not Geralt is left unattended to explore the courtyards and the keep. 

He gets into an unimaginable amount of trouble. By the time he is two, no one doubts his ability to survive. He learns to walk incredibly quickly and is soon discovered in all number of improbable places in all manner of questionable situations. Jarosław, the alchemy master, looses count of how often he has to rescue Geralt from consuming some deadly potion. 

Having been largely left to his own devices, Geralt grows up half feral. When he is two and a half, he convinces himself that he is, in fact, a wolf. He spends the day prowling the courtyard hunting bugs, but when he graduates to hunting mice, Vesemir has to scoop him up before he tries to eat one of his catches. Geralt, furious at being denied, starts to howl at the top of his lungs. Doing a very impressive imitation of the wolves that howl outside of Kaer Morhen at night. Exasperated, Vesemir locks him in his room, a storeroom which had been cleared out for Geralt once he survived his first year, hoping that he will quiet down. Geralt does not. He howls well into the night. Until his voice is barely louder than a whisper. 

Jarosław stomps into Vesemir’s room and tells him to, “shut that damn wolf up!” So Vesemir relents and lets Geralt out of his room. The exhausted toddler grins at him, showing off his teeth, before passing out. Any of the children at Kaer Morhen might be described as wolves, but Geralt is the only one for who the name sticks. 

By the time Geralt is five, he is a constant running ball of energy around the Keep. He keeps the older Witchers on their feet as he dances around the daily rhythms of life at Kaer Morhen. He is still too young to receive any proper training, but he has grown up watching the older boys learn to fight and run and jump, and so he is already agile like a squirrel and vicious with a stick. He has a boundless curiosity, and will pester any Witcher who will listen with endless questions about monsters and the world. Mściwoj, thankfully, takes the time to teach Geralt to read, and that distracts him for a time. The older boys move around Geralt with even less certainty than the Witchers, unsure of what to make of this misplaced child in their midsts. In truth, anything that will keep Geralt occupied and out of the way is a blessing. 

When Geralt is five and a half, almost old enough to start training, Eskel arrives. He arrives with a wagon load of other boys, all between the ages of six and eight. They are all orphans collected in the aftermaths of war and famine and plague. They all have the hungry, staring eyes of children who have seen too much of the world for their age. But as the other boys file into the keep, lured by the promise of warm food and a dry bed, Eskel stands staring blank faced by the wagon, unable to move. Vesemir holds back a sigh. He knows that look and readies himself to see another too small corpse in a matter of days. But then out of nowhere, Geralt comes pushing through and takes the new boy by the hand. Geralt is small for his age, and his curly hair and smattering of freckles give him an added look of innocence. Next to Eskel, who is dark haired and dark eyed and grim faced, Geralt looks almost fragile. But then he smiles up at Eskel, gap toothed and with his green eyes sparkling, and says, “I’m Geralt. Do you wanna be friends?” It’s like a spell breaking, Eskel blinks, smiles, and nods his head. The two are inseparable after that. 

Partly because of that incident and partly because he doesn’t know what else to do with the boy, Vesemir convinces the other Witchers to start Geralt’s training half a year early, so that he will move through his schooling along with Eskel and the others who had arrived that day. In the weak spring sunshine, a cohort of fourteen boys stands in the courtyard to receive their first sword fighting lesson. Over half of them will be dead in the next seven years. 

The traditional age to undergo the Trail of the Grasses, the first and most vital of the Witcher trials, happens at age twelve. Since that test has the highest death rate, the training until that point is restricted to only to the basics. Everything else is wasted effort. So the boys learn simple sword forms. They are given wooden swords and small sheaths and told to never go anywhere without them. They practice hours of drawing and re-sheathing their blades until the motion becomes wrote. They go up and down the wooden climbing structure in the yard, small bodies tumbling down and earning bruises and sprains until they develop the strength and balance necessary. After that, they are set out on the trail, and run endless laps until their lungs burn and their feet bleed. It is running the trail, which the boys call The Killer, when Geralt sees the first boy die. He has just turned six when the boy running ahead of him twists his ankle. The ground falls away in a straight fall on either side of the path, which is barely four feet wide. Geralt watches in slow motion as the boy stumbles to the side, trips, and falls into the ravine. His body is never recovered. Geralt keeps running. 

If the Witchers thought Geralt was a menace by himself, it is nothing compared to the trouble he gets into with Eskel. While the dark haired boy appears quiet and well behaved at first, he is the mastermind behind their truly harebrained schemes. It was Eskel’s idea to hide all of the knifes in the kitchen and it was Eskel’s idea to build a snowman inside in order to see how fast it would melt. Kazimierz, the youngest of the trainers, comes down the next morning to find a puddle of water covering the kitchen floor. His angry shout brings half the trainers running down and the boys scattering in the opposite direction. As a result, the two trouble makers spend an inordinate amount of time polishing armor and sharpening swords. 

The years pass and summer rolls around and Geralt’s cohort are prepared to go through the Trial of the Grasses. One by one they are taken downstairs and strapped to the table. The potions are injected and the boys begin to scream. They thrash and pull at their restraints until their throats bleed and their skin splits open. After two hours, once the first wave passes, they are unstrapped from the table and laid out on cots in the room next door. They will continue to thrash and scream periodically as their bodies change. Two boys don’t even make it to the cots, and die on the table within an hour. Dogbert, the old mage who oversees the process, wipes sweat and blood off of the other boy’s skin and vomit from the floor as they shiver, and cry, and howl in pain until over the course of three days, four more boys die. 

Geralt is the first to recover fully. And as the other boys are still moaning with fever, returned to their dormitory as the worst has passed, Geralt skips out of bed cat eyed and bursting with new strength. Vesemir expects him to grow bored as he waits for the other boys to recover, but aside from trips to the dining hall to consume truly astounding amounts of food, Geralt stays by Eskel’s side. A week later and the eight remaining boys are back on their feet and training resumes. 

Now that they have withstood the first major test, the training becomes more rigorous. Aside from advanced sword techniques, agility training and endurance runs, the boys are taught to sharpen their minds. Those who could not read and write before, which is most, are taught. They spend long hours studying bestiaries and books on alchemy and field medicine. Many days end with broken bones and pounding headaches as the boys learn to adjust not only to their new strength but their rapidly improving senses as well. 

In two years, they will face the Trial of the Dreams, so they practice endless hours of meditation and are slowly trained to push their emotions aside. They will not be overcome by something as plebeian as fear. 

Geralt and Eskel are both bright students, and quickly rise to the top of their class. Geralt lives up to his wolf moniker, and is fierce and unrelenting with a sword, surprising even the trainers with his skill and ability. Eskel is sharp and clever, and is one of the few boys who can find Geralt’s weaknesses and exploit them to good effect. All the while, the older Witchers mutter together with their heads bent, their eyes watching the young wolf leap and howl in the training ring. No one has ever recovered that fast from the Grasses, and Vesemir feels his heart sink even further every time he sees that plotting look in their eyes. He is not in charge of the Trials, and he knows better than to get attached, but there is a warmth in his chest when he thinks of Geralt, and he would hate to see it die out. 

When Geralt is thirteen he is taken aside for another round of the Grasses. It is still only the same procedure they give all of the boys, but they want to see if he can survive them again. He is taken quietly, without warning, and Eskel only hears about it when Geralt fails to show up for sword practice. There is a lost look in his amber eyes, and the only thing Vesemir can do is give him extra forms to practice. Maybe if he keeps moving, he won’t have to think about what his friend is going through.

Geralt survives. 

When Geralt is fourteen, they are taken to a cave for the Trial of the Dreams. Unlike the Grasses, this one does not change the body but the mind. It gives Witchers the control they need to endure decades or even centuries of violence and abuse on the Path, without ever flinching in fear or cringing away in pain. It also is what gives them their ability to sign and resist small magics. 

The boys are laid out on the cave floor and are given a potion. They do not scream or writhe but lay deathly still like corpses. Two pass away in the first night, the only sign of their passing is the stilling of their hearts. When the rest awaken five days later, another boy will be unable to speak and will die in a matter of hours, his mind splintered by what he saw. 

Geralt springs back from this Trial same as the last, but it is Eskel this time who takes the most from it. He takes to signing like a fish to water. He quickly draws even with Geralt in their duals, his magics evening out with Geralt’s skill with the blade. 

Traditionally, the boys are given a time to adjust after the Trial of the Dreams, and Kazimierz takes them to Ellander and the Temple of Melitele for the summer. The boys receive rudimentary lessons in history, geography and math, whatever few mundane skills Witchers deem useful to offset their more specialized training. While they are there, a young priestess by the name of Nenneke, who is barely older than the boys themselves but already on the path to advancement, catches the eye of a young wolf with curly hair. He is small for his age and whipcord thin, as if he can never get enough to eat. He moves with boundless energy but there is a weight to his eyes that makes her look twice. Even standing surrounded by his cohort, he seems lonely, and reminds her impossibly of the wild wolf she once saw as a child, poised in the morning mists outside her family's farm. 

Geralt turns away from the strange young women, and grins at Eskel. They have the day off and have taken over a corner in the yard. He springs and tackles Eskel into the soft grass. At home, they spar on rough gravel. Here, they wrestle on green satin and bare their teeth at a perfect blue sky. More and more, lately, Geralt has found his words drying up in his throat. He doesn’t understand it, but as long as he can push his shoulder into Eskel’s and feel his familiar warmth pushing back, he thinks he will be fine. 

Geralt is fifteen when the old Witchers decide they have one more experiment they want to try. This time, it will be a new blend of mutagens, which they have never tried before but which Dogbert promises will give greater speed and greater endurance than ever before. Already, Geralt is stronger than the other boys, the potions which he has been learning to make seem to barely burn his throat when other Witchers in training take years to build up their tolerance. This time, Eskel overhears a muttered conversation before it happens. He is on his way back to the dormitories when he hears a gruff voice saying that the decision has been made. Vesemir’s voice retorts that it is not final but Dogbert and Jarosław are already leaving the room. The mage tosses behind his shoulder that an opportunity like this is too rare to pass up and must be taken advantage of. The wolf will either survive or he will die, but either way they will learn something valuable. 

Eskel freezes in the hallway and waits for the two to leave. Then he slams into the room and stalks towards Vesemir, who is standing hunched by the far wall. “How can you let this happen? Haven’t they done enough? Already, Geralt is one of the best Witchers this place has ever seen, you know that’s true, and you’re letting them kill him anyways. He looks up to you as a father, how can you let this happen?” Eskel puts as much venom as he can into his voice. He has always been polite, but now he takes every ounce of rage and hurls it at the figure before him. 

Vesemir flinches back, but only looks resigned when he turns to Eskel and says, “It will be done. One way or another, Dogbert will find his guinea pig. At least Geralt has a chance, better than most. And besides, his mother said….”

Eskel waits. This is the first time he has ever heard anything about Geralt’s mother. But nothing more is forthcoming. Disgusted, he turns on his heel and runs to the dorms. 

Geralt is sitting on his bed, reading, when Eskel bursts in. He looks up in surprise but can’t get a word in before Eskel has flung himself besides him and has wound his arms tight around his waist. “I won’t let them take you.” He says, and presses his face into Geralt’s neck.

Confused, Geralt sets down his book and puts a hesitant hand on Eskel’s back. It’s not that they don’t touch, but they have never been this clingy. “What are you talking about? Won’t let who take me where?” 

“Dogbert. That old goat! He wants you for extra Trials. Says it’s a chance to experiment.”

A cold stone sinks into Geralt’s stomach. He feels numb, all of a sudden, and like the light is slowly fading from the room. Black spots move in on the corner of his vision and his breath comes short.

“Oh.” He thinks a part of him knew this was coming, but every time he thought on it, his mind skittered away like a startled horse. His mind goes blank now, and his arms go around Eskel of their own accord. The only thing that feels real is the warmth of his friend curled around his side like a human shaped wolf. I too, am a wolf. He thinks to himself, and curls himself even closer. 

Hours or days later, Dogbert, Jarosław, and Kazimierz come to get him. Eskel hurls himself at them like a wild thing, howling. But Kazimierz has the strength of a full blooded Witcher, and holds him back. Geralt watches his body stand and follow the other two towards the basement. His mind feels very far away. 

Geralt survives. 

Five days later he is brought up from the basement and deposited in the dormitory. At this point, only five boys remain, and they all give his semi conscious form a wide margin when they return to sleep. Only Eskel remains plastered at his side, and refuses to attend lessons until Geralt finally awakens three painstaking days later. In the following months, his curly auburn hair will grow in straight and white like snow.

The experimental mutations have other visible changes as well. His teeth are sharper and harder than the others. Unmistakably fangs. His fingernails grow in thick and hard, sharp enough to cut into wood. Always on the thinner side, he suddenly goes through a growth spurt that gives him three inches in a week and almost doubles his muscle mass in two. He spends the whole time aching and clumsy for the first time in his life, and Eskel swears that he can see Geralt grow before his eyes. But after three weeks, Geralt figures out his new body and leaps into the practice ring with renewed grace and skill. Vesemir racks his brain for every advanced form he has ever taught and watches his wolf eat them up. 

When he is not training him, Vesemir also notices other changes. Geralt is still a bright boy, still eager to learn, but before where he was bursting with questions he is now reserved. Where before he was a force of barely contained energy, running through the halls and getting into trouble faster than you could blink, he was now still. His words came seldom, and when they did Geralt kept his sentences short and to the point. Where before he had laughed often and fiercely, he now only rarely made a noise. Sometimes, in the evenings, Vesemir saw him hiding a chuckle in Eskel’s shoulder, but only when the mood around the eating hall was especially relaxed. When Geralt smiled, he did so with closed lips, in order to hide his teeth. 

For the next three years, the boys were expected to continue their training, moving up through the levels until they began to ready themselves for the Trial of the Mountains. During the summers, they spent long weeks hunting and gathering herbs in the mountains around Kaer Morhen. Witchers on the Path had to be entirely self sufficient, and it was important that the boys learn to survive on their own. It also gave them a chance to test themselves against the smaller monsters that the Witchers let roam the Blue Mountains for exactly that reason. 

In the winter, those who had passed the Trial of the Dreams were allowed to mingle with the returning Witchers, and they spent long evening hours listening to stories from the Path. Though they had not yet earned their medallions, they were close to being full fledged Witchers themselves, and now that the threat of death had lessened somewhat, the pack opened its arms to its newest members. 

(At the lower tables, younger boys watched with poorly hidden yearning. One boy, with brown hair and a sneer permanently fixed on his young face, glared impetuously at the Witchers)

At night, Geralt would sometimes slip wordlessly into Eskel’s bed, and they found new ways to use their bodies. Pressed together and silent as they could be, they shared their warmth and their scent and their pleasure, and for a few short years felt frozen in time, as if the violence of the Path was merely a distant mirage on the horizon. 

When Geralt was eighteen, it was time for the Trial of the Mountains. The final true test before they could become Witchers, it was also the most mysterious. They were given no potions or strange incense to inhale. Instead they were set out on the trail one morning, and told to only return once they had found and activated their medallions. 

At a loss of what else to do, Geralt took off after the others into the woods. He knew that at some point he would have to make it to the circle of elements in order to activate his medallion, so for lack of a better option he headed roughly in that direction, angling northwest against the setting sun. After several hours of what amounted to aimless wondering, something caught his attention. Like a buzzing in his ear, he turned a little to the right and continued down towards the lake. As per the rules of the Trial, he had nothing but his clothes and his swords on him, but he was young enough to be confident in his abilities. 

As he neared the lake, the buzzing got louder. Like a vibration that was building up in his chest. He was so distracted by the sensation that he didn’t notice the forktail until it was almost upon him. Unlike the monsters which he usually found around Kaer Morhen, mostly drowners and trolls, the forktail was vicious and impossibly fast. He drew steel and leapt out of the way of its claws and slashing tail, running in a close circle around the beast before lunging forward and swiping across its wing. It hissed and snapped at him but Geralt drew a quick Quen and sprang out of the way. Circling once again before closing in to strike. This back and forth continued for what felt like ages but was likely only a few minutes. Eventually the forktail grew clumsy from the many minor cuts that Geralt had inflicted and slowed enough that Geralt could move in for the kill. After the beast lay dead, he snarled at the corpse. Blood dripped from several small gashes, but there was nothing to do but keep searching. 

As the sun sank and the night grew colder, Geralt began to wonder how he had yet to run into any of his classmates. Though there were only five of them and the forests around the keep were endless, they had all set off from the same point and he had expected to run into at least one or two along the way. Geralt strained his sense, but for all he could tell he was alone.

Geralt had decided to stick close to the lake, and though he could have sworn it was a gonna be a cloudless night, a dense fog appeared and obscured even his heightened vision. A sudden wrenching feeling in his gut made him stumble without thought onto a higher embankment, and for good measure he climbed into a tree as well. Apparently this was the right decision, for not five minutes later a basilisk came crawling along the lake shore, tasting the air with its tongue. Geralt held still and waited for the creature to move on. 

After several long minutes, he descended and continued his search. Multiple times he felt the presence of other creatures, both mundane and magical, moving through the fog and the dark trees, and he avoided them as best as he could. Despite this, he was unable to avoid a small gaggle of drowners and a cikavac, which he dealt with in due order. 

Exhausted and hungry, he finally paused by a large stump, and wondered what the hell he was gonna do if he couldn’t find his medallion. What happened to boys who returned from the Trial of the Mountains with their lives intact but without their medallions? Were they cast out? There was no where that Geralt could go without his Witcher medallion. No purpose for him if he failed this test. Even if he had to search every inch of the mountain on his hands and knees, he was going to find that medallion. 

As if on cue, the buzzing vibration returned, and he followed it up the incline and over a downed tree across a stream. In the dark, his pupils expanded to take in the minimal light, but it was enough to see a glint in the foliage. There, laying amongst the roots of a linden tree, was a medallion. 

A silver coin about an inch and a half across with a snarling wolf’s head stamped on it. Geralt stooped to pick it up and felt the finely crafted chain slip through his fingers like silk. The medal was cool to the touch. A shiver passed through him, and he slipped it over his head. 

In silence, his thoughts strangely still, he navigated by the stars to find the circle of the elements and there lit the fires to activate his medallion. It buzzed once against his chest and then grew still. Its weight settled and Geralt forgot what it felt like to not have that simple weight around his neck. When the fires went out he turned around and returned to the keep. 

No one was waiting for him when he returned, but that was expected. Witchers did not stand on ceremony. As dawn was breaking he came into the dining hall and took a spot at a table reserved for full blooded Witchers. A plate of food was placed in front of him, and Vesemir came over to clap him on the back. He ate in silence.

Despite his aching muscles and the exhaustion pulling at his eyes, he returned to the front steps. Just because Witchers didn’t stand on ceremony didn’t mean he couldn’t wait for his friend. Two hours later and Eskel came loping out from the woods. Tired and dirty but proud. His medallion a bright spot of silver against his chest. 

Slowly, as the day progressed, Jacek and Krzysztof returned as well. But as the sun fell and the light faded, there was no sing of Jakub. Like the first boy to die on the Killer, his body was never recovered and his name was lost to the trees. 

Geralt is twenty one and the fastest, strongest Witcher that the wolf school has ever seen. He is quiet and reserved and his white hair is a shock on top his youthful face. Spring comes bright and cool, and in the silvery light, he stands shoulder to shoulder with Eskel. There are no words for this moment. Nothing they can say or do to change what awaits them. So they share one last smile and grab each others shoulder. Eskel is the first to walk away. Geralt, despite every ounce of training, turns to look back. Vesemir is the only one standing at the gate. His face is impassive, but he waves and calls out in his gruff voice, “good luck, white wolf. And good speed.”


	2. Lambert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert's childhood at Kaer Morhen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad for leaving out Lambert so here is his story

Lambert arrives at Kaer Morhen when he is seven years old, eight years after Geralt was delivered at its doorstep.

He is a child of surprise, claimed by a grizzled old Witcher who barely speaks. Bertholt saved the life of an angry drunkard who offered the Law of Surprise in return. “The first thing that comes to greet me when we get home.” He had been hoping it would be his wife, but he wasn’t too upset when it was his youngest son instead. Useless lay about that he was.

Lambert was born angry and he arrives angry. As far as he is concerned the world is one big mean joke and it’s laughing at his expense. Being taken as payment for the life of a father who was more rage than man is only the cruel punchline. 

So Lambert quickly gets a reputation for his sharp claws and even sharper tongue. Any conversation with him is bound to end in at least an insult or two, and the trainers are left pulling their hair out at this infuriating boy who grins like a knife and bites like a cornered dog. 

But despite all that, Lambert is a bright boy, and even more importantly, he is a survivor. He may rage against the fate that bought him to this place with every breath that he takes, but he will be damned if he lets it end him. If he makes it through this, it will be out of spite if nothing else. 

Slowly, some of the other boys learn to see past his rage. There are eighteen boys in his cohort, an unusually large number, so Lambert eventually finds a friend or two, and sometimes he finds himself with some of the older boys, a year or two ahead of him in training. 

They spend their limited free time comparing bruises and complaining about instructors. Sergei and Gweld, in the cohort above his, brag about their sword forms and Lambert doesn’t hesitate to tell them that they are shit at sword fighting and that if he were allowed to he would knock them all on their asses. Wouldn’t even have to try too hard because their heads were so big they’d probably just topple over anyways.

Gweld shoves him on the shoulder and tells him to fuck off. He is laughing without any heat so Lambert for once lets it go. 

A group of older boys, already cat eyed and snarling, pass by where Lambert and the others are lounging in the sun. Gawain, one of the smallest boys in the group who for some unknown reason is always trailing behind Lambert, turns beet red and stares after the passing group. He has also taken an infatuation with Geralt, for an unknown reason, and immediately starts chirping about how the slender boy could take all of them single handedly. Lambert hits him over the head and tells him to shut up. Geralt is a stuck up, nobler-then-thou-art, ass hole and just because all the trainers can’t stop talking about him and his magical come back from the Trial of the Grasses, didn’t mean the rest of them had to moon over him as well. 

Sergei tells him to lay off but they thankfully change the subject. Sometimes, Lambert swears he is the only one who isn’t infatuated with that stupid boy.

Lambert is thirteen when he survives the Trial of the Grasses himself, but many of his cohort are not so lucky. Out of eighteen, only eight remain. 

Lambert learns a new kind of rage then. Not for himself but for others. For days, he only communicates in snaps and grunts, and tries to bore holes into the trainers responsible with nothing but his eyes. Gawain was amongst the boys who didn’t make it, and Lambert doesn’t even know where the small body is buried. 

Sergei and Gweld, a year ahead and already preparing for the Trial of the Dreams, edge away from Lambert’s crackling hostility, and begin to drift over to the older boys. Lambert sees them laughing with Geralt and his dark haired shadow, Eskel, and mutters some mean comments under his breath.

Lambert furthers his reputation for being mean, but at least the other boys leave him in peace and he only has to spend a few hours a week polishing armor and sharpening swords. 

But while Lambert might be mean, Mikil is vicious. 

It’s an unspoken fact that some of the boys who come to Kaer Morhen come mean and get meaner, and it takes exactly two weeks for everyone to learn that Mikil is one of the worst. 

But because Witchers are pragmatic they wait to see what will happen. What happens is that one day, a few months after the Trial of the Grasses when all the boys are still learning their new strength, Mikil lets loose. 

He doesn’t loose his temper or show any outward signs of rage, but all of a sudden the boy he was supposed to be grappling with is on the ground and Mikil is pounding his face like he wants to smear it into the dirt. He is cool and methodical about it and thats how Lambert knows what he is. 

Lance, the trainer in charge of hand-to-hand combat, grabs Mikil by the shoulder and Vesemir runs over from the other side of the courtyard and pins his arms down. Mikil puts up only a little fight and then goes eerily still. He is smiling as Lance takes him away and Vesemir tends to the boy groaning on the ground. 

Lambert stands very still and feels far away. The other boys are clustering around, even some of the older boys who had been woking with Vesemir come over to see what the fuss is about. But Lambert can hardly see them, and instead of the cool spring breeze he feels a meaty hand closing around his wrist and the echoes of bruises up and down his ribs. 

His father was never that methodical, but he was vicious with his rage in a way that bordered on glee. 

Lambert passes the rest of the morning in a daze, and wonders into the dining hall at noon with his head still muffled by desperately repressed memories. But he finally becomes aware of a different sort of movement as the usual flow of boys and Witchers through the hall is interrupted. 

Geralt has come down from his table, the ones closest to the adult Witchers, and is moving towards were the younger boys sit. His hair is a mad looking patchwork of white and auburn, the result of the experimental trials that everyone won’t stop talking about, and his eyes glint a hard gold. His lips curl back and reveal his teeth. 

Geralt steps past Lambert and almost casually comes to a stop in front of a particular seat on the bench. He crosses his arms, but doesn’t say a word. The message, however, is clear. Mikil, who was coming in behind Lambert, grinds to stop. He is no longer welcome to sit amongst his peers.

For a moment, no one breaths. 

Sullenly, Mikil lowers his head and slinks over to the farthest table down, where only the youngest boys sit who have not yet passed the Trial of the Grasses. Geralt nods and returns to his upper table. The chatter amongst the boys resumes. Aubrey and Gweld stare after Geralt like he’s some kind of hero.

Lambert, on the other hand, is suddenly furious. He sits down to eat with a glower fixed so firmly on his face that no one even thinks to look at him. He wants nothing more than to walk over to that stuck up prick and punch him in his smug face. Geralt, the darling prince of Kaer Morhen, obviously has no idea how to deal with bullies. Lambert wishes he could shake him and scream in his face. Another part of him has to fight the urge to hide. Don’t you know! Don’t you know that if you embarrass them they only get worse?

The incident, however, passes, and for a few months it is as if it never happened. The other boy recovers and no one mentions his injuries. Lambert is still a little shit and Mikil is still vicious but nothing worse than the normal scapes and bruises from their training comes out of it. 

But Lambert never forgets, and he knows that Mikil doesn’t either. Creatures like that, who are only wearing the skin of people, will always be on the hunt to sniff out weakness and exploit it. 

That November, Lambert finds himself working in the kitchen. Kaer Morhen is run like an efficient machine, and everyone is expected to pitch in to keep it running. Boys of all ages are given daily chores, everything from tending the garden and the animals to hauling water and cooking food. Usually Lambert dislikes kitchen duty, but as an icy storm of sleet has been pounding against the keep all day, he is glad to be in the warm kitchen as he washes out the numerous large bowls used to prepare meals. 

A prickling sensation alerts him to the presence of another, and he doesn’t need fancy Witcher senses to warn him to this kind of danger. 

He turns around and is unsurprised to find Mikil. The other boy is standing by the work tables, his dirty blond hair limp with rain. He has obviously just come in from outside, and his usually pale face is red from the cold. The color, however, does nothing to disguise the dead look in his pale yellow eyes, or the knife like smile that sharpens his lips. 

“Hello Lambert. Fancy seeing you here all alone. Did you piss off another Witcher and get stuck with dish duty again? What a pain it must be, having such a clever little tongue like yours.” Mikil’s voice is as flat and cold as everything else about him. 

Lambert huffs a breath, and defiantly turns his back on Mikil. Let him do his worst. He has known bullies like him all his life, and he didn’t survive the Grasses only to be done in by a piece of shit like him.

“What do you mean? You look like you’ve been out running the Killer, are you sure the trainers aren’t trying to kill you with the cold?” He puts as much disdain as he can into his voice, and ignores the ghosts of larger, drunker men crowding around his mind. His hand reaches superstitiously for a knife. 

“Hah! That’s clever. You’re such a clever little boy. Bet you think you’re such the little jester, but you won’t be half so clever without a tongue.”

Whatever demons are haunting Mikil, whatever evil forces moved his father’s hands with a whim or taught his brothers to hit first and to hit harder, Lambert has never bothered to find out why these men are the way they are. He only knows that they are cruel and that sooner or later he will suffer because of it. So he whips around when he hears Mikil take his first step and lashes out with the peeling knife that his hand found. It slashes the other boy across the face. 

It’s like a flip has been switched and all of sudden Mikil flies into a rage. He howls and throws himself at Lambert. He looses his grip on the knife as he falls backwards and the two boys end up rolling on the ground, clawing and biting like a bunch of dogs. 

All of a sudden there are different hands on him. Larger hands, and Lambert screams. He thrashes around and blindly strikes at whoever is holding him. But the hands are too strong and he is soon brought into a tight hold, unable to move his arms or wriggle away. Distantly, he hears voices and other men dragging Mikil away in a similar hold. 

It is Mściwoj, the old one legged librarian, of all people who crouches down in front of Lambert and finally brings him into focus. The arms holding him in place let go and he shifts into a crouch. The Witcher’s face is old and scared and carries not a trace of pity or condemnation, only a weary sort of knowledge. Everyone knows that Lambert might be mean, but Mikil is vicious. 

“Did he start it boy?” His voice is gruff but kind, as he asks. He holds out a cool cloth and Lambert takes it to place against the burning scratches he can feel on his face. 

“Yes.” He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t expect anything to be done about it. 

But Mściwoj nods his head and pushes himself laboriously to standing. Leaning on his crutch, he limps towards where Vesemir is standing in the doorway and confers with him too quietly for Lambert to hear. Instead, he looks over to where Kazimierz and Lance are still pinning Mikil to the ground. An angry kind of pride blooms in his chest when he sees the matching scratches and bruises forming on the other boys face. He won’t be the only one with lingering aches from this fight. 

Eventually, the older Witchers beckon the younger trainers over and Mikil is escorted out of the room. Mściwoj returns to hand Lambert a cup of water and a small pot of salve to put on his wounds. Then, wordlessly, he hobbles out of the kitchen. 

Lambert sits for several dazed moments, wondering what just happened. Eventually, he stands up, drinks the water and inspects his injuries. Only a few bruises need salve, and the scratches on his face should be gone in a matter of days. Then, brushing himself off, he returns to work. The next day, Mikil is gone.

Lambert’s cohort looses three more boys to the Trial of the Dreams and they are down to four. 

During his stay at the Temple of Melitele, he gets into a fight with Sister Nenneke, and spends the rest of his stay sullenly cleaning and re-shelving books in the library. 

When he is nineteen, the Trial of the Mountains takes the rest of his cohort, and Lambert is the only one out of eighteen to become a Witcher. 

He spends his last three years at Kaer Morhen almost bursting at the seems with rage. It’s unfair. It’s not fair to take a child and throw him to the wolves. I never even wanted this. He wants to shake the trainers until they understand. He wants to take the new boys and run. Run and never look back.

But he survived out of spite if nothing else and he will be damned if he will do a bad job of it. So at twenty two he sets out on the Path for the first time, and he doesn’t look back. But the next winter he returns to the mountain fortress and he swipes at his brothers with sharp words and even sharper claws. He gets into fights that have to be broken up by the older Witchers and he otherwise manages to get on everybody’s nerves. But in the evenings he gathers around the fire with his brothers, and ducks around their half hearted punches and lets himself be pulled into a circle of arms and rough voices and a warmth that could maybe be accepted as home. Fuck them anyways. He thinks fondly, and passes around the bottle.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who is confused, the last trial is a very magic heavy trial that forces the boys to use their instincts to guide them to their medallions. It also sends out a kind of signal that calls in monsters so that is why Geralt finds so many beasties


End file.
